Names
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Locked in the queen's tower, Belle calls his name night after night and prays to Love that he won't forget her, nor she him.


Regina has purchased a young Arabian stallion (purchased–not tricked or bullied her way into the ownership of; she never plays unfairly when it comes to horses–something to do with honoring Daniel, she supposes). She names the horse Regal, because her mentors taught her long ago that names carry power. It takes two stable boys to control Regal as he's led into a stall and tied down; Regina's quite pleased as she imagines what this strong and energetic animal will do for the bloodline. As a test, she orders a third stable boy to bring in one of the mares in heat, just a quick trot through the stables to see if the Arabian is interested.

The stud nearly demolishes his stall.

A year later, as Regina sits at her dining table, parchment and ink pots laid out before her, she remembers the Arabian's kicks and squeals as he fought to free himself from confinement to chase after the mare. Regina dips her pen in ink and begins to scratch it across a sheet of parchment, for now she realizes what's missing, why her plans for the curse seem a bit dull. They lack an element of entertaining danger: imagine what fun it would be, she giggles, if the curse rendered Prince Charming as frustrated as that Arabian had been. She begins to write it into the curse, but then she pauses, remembering: that young stud would've risked life and limb to get to the mare, if the stable boys hadn't tied him down; with Snow trotting around Storybrooke, Charming would go just as wild. Throw True Love into the mix, and Storybrooke might not have to wait for the savior's arrival: a half-crazed Charming might manage to break the curse himself. Regina loves danger, but _calculated_ danger. No, older studs, especially those who haven't had much access to mares, tend to be more manageable. . . and there's an older stud that it would be quite entertaining to torment, so Regina substitutes a pair of names for Charming's and Snow's, and then she holds the parchment up to admire her work.

* * *

Belle lies on the flat mattress the Queen has provided for her and stares at the vaulted ceiling. The palace has grown cold, so she suspects winter is approaching, though without a window she can't be sure. In the beginning of her captivity, she tried to keep track of the passing of days by counting the meals she was brought. She supposes she should be grateful for the meals: she's given meat and vegetables twice a day, and the food is fresh and flavorful. For some reason the Queen apparently wants Belle kept physically, if not emotionally, healthy. After more months have passed than Belle can keep track of, she gives up counting, along with the expectation that a ransom will be paid and she'll be freed (though what Maurice would have that Regina could possibly want, Belle can't figure–and if it's Rumplestiltskin that Regina's trying to bargain with, clearly Her Majesty wasn't paying attention when Rumple threw Belle out of the Dark Castle).

Although given food, clothing and an occasional bath, Belle has been given nothing to occupy her mind, neither books nor conversation, so she sometimes makes up stories and tells them to herself, talking aloud. Sometimes, especially at night, her stories are about Rumple. And every night, just before she falls asleep, she speaks his name, over and over; she knows that when his name is called three times, the dark magic will transport him to the summoner's side.

She supposes Regina has placed some sort of sound barrier that prevents him from hearing her, but she speaks his name every night anyway; surely at some point the magic barrier will weaken. She prays to Love that, though years may pass before he hears her and comes for her, he won't forget her, nor she him.

* * *

Regina enjoys the clacking of her heels against the sidewalk: the noise makes other people look up, and once they see her, they move off to the grass to allow her the entire sidewalk. She enjoys the flash of panic in their faces when they accidentally make eye contact with her, and the vague, perpetually puzzled expression they all wear when they think she's not looking.

But what Regina enjoys most of all is the confused longing with which a certain hospital volunteer gazes at the young stud in a coma, and that exact same expression with which the old stud, hiding behind the blinds of his shop window, watches the librarian walk to work each morning.

Sometimes Regina laughs out loud at these real-life soap opera actors stuck forever on the same page of their script. Their yearning makes them silly, but it's their utter perplexity that's downright ridiculous. The candystripper/schoolteacher and the landlord/pawnbroker are caught in a loop of lust and they don't even realize it.  
Sometimes, though, Regina gets a little nervous, wondering what if either Snow or Rumple someday tries to figure out why.

* * *

"Emma. What a lovely name."

Within that first minute he remembers every other name hidden beneath the lies. He knows exactly who Emma is and what she's destined to do and who her parents are. He remembers the werewolf in the inn and the dwarf in the jail and the fairies in the convent and how they all got here, and how, although Regina thinks it was all for her, it was really all for Bae.

And in the second minute he remembers who he is. . . what he is: something much worse than a man-eating werewolf or a body-snatching scientist. He remembers every despicable act of his dark career, capped off by the curse that's robbed hundreds of people of their identities and their families (but it's all for Bae, so he can't allow himself to think about those people).

And in the third minute he remembers the true name of the librarian he's been admiring from afar.

It takes him one more minute to throw sacrifice out the window. If he weren't such a self-centered bastard, he'd leave her alone, maybe even steer her towards some nice young man, so that when the curse broke, she'd have a strong pair of arms to lean on. But not in this world or the last has he claimed to be kind, and he has to see her, now that he knows everything, including Regina's lie.

So he forgoes rent collection and dashes over to the library, risking the possibility that Regina will catch him and suspect he's awakened. He throws the door open–my gods, how could Regina have stuck Belle in this job when there's a damned dragon in the basement? A dozen heads turn his way; eleven pairs of eyes narrow at the disturbance, then glance away quickly when they see it's mean old Mr. Gold who's causing the ruckus. One pair of eyes (blue like the waters of Lake Nostos, blue like the dress he'd conjured for her) dares to remain on his. She smiles at him from behind the circulation desk (but she smiles at everyone). "Good morning, Mr. Gold. May I help you?"

Gods, he can't help himself; to see her here, as sweet and beautiful as the day he'd thrown her out–he alternates between wanting to throttle Regina and needing to kiss Belle. He has to do something to ease this ache in his chest, so he answers, "Good morning, Ms. French. I'd like a book. . .of folk lore." He can't bring himself to say "fairy tales."

She comes out from behind the desk and sets a hand lightly on his arm. "A popular genre with our patrons. We have folk tales from all over the world, right over here. Is there a particular tale you're interested in?"

He's never careless. He's got three hundred years of patient planning under his belt. But he stupidly blurts, "The story of the imp who spun straw into gold."

"Oh, yes." Her hand brushes along the spines of a set of leather-bound books. "The tale of Rum"–and in the next second her blue eyes widen and her voice tails off–"ple. . .stilt. . skin. . . ."

In the second second, she throws her arms about his neck and kisses him, right there in the stacks.

The other patrons would complain about the librarian's sudden bout of unprofessionalism, but they don't dare because, after all, that's mean old Mr. Gold she's kissing.

And everyone knows what a monster he is.


End file.
